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|My 2 Cents on Episode 4.14: Prime Ridge
“…rest assured the next review will come along in a far timelier manner.”
Mr. Chairman, with all due respect, I have absolutely no recollection of ever having said that. Moreover, I’m fairly certain that “timelier” isn’t even a word (I move that the chair kindly refrain from sullying my pontification with all that “Beggin’ yer pardon there, Bilbo, but the Oxford English Dictionary begs to differ” crapola…I’m in the zone, damn it!).
A’ight, now that that silly little misunderstanding has been cleared up once and for all, never to resurface again, I’ve an announcement to make that probably won’t come as much of a surprise. I have, after all, been dropping no small amount of hints about the matter lo these past couple years, and while I’m fairly certain that most of you are beyond fed up hearing about it, it’s an essential part of who I am. Something near and dear to my heart that has helped shape the course of what might charitably be called my life. Something those closest to me have assured me time and again was looming right over the horizon, even in those weaker moments when doubt crept in and liberally pimp-slapped my otherwise ingrained optimism. At long, laborious last, it’s come to fruition…
My car died.
My friends, family, co-workers, neighbors, pets, perfect strangers, imperfect strangers, figments of my imagination, and the guy who stands on the corner a few blocks from where I work and shadow boxes the mail truck would likely accuse me of overlooking the obvious; and while I’ve regularly invited the lot of ‘em to take an all-expenses-paid flying leap into the protein bank (you’d be amazed by the repulsed looks that statement elicits out of non-Lexxians…they who would accuse us of being the sick minded ones…), I will concede—in hindsight—to turning the occasional blind eye to a thing or two…
*Like the fact that the alignment was all out of whack when I drove it in high school, due in no small part to my jumping it over a curb the first time I ever sat behind the wheel (I was 13, it was still my old man’s car at the time, and nobody bothered to tell me that an automobile has a slightly wider turning radius than a go-kart).
*Or the fact that when I was in college, it routinely failed to turn over whenever the weather got extremely hot…or extremely cold…which constitutes roughly 55% of the average Midwestern calendar year.
*My radiator has one hell of a gag reflex (refer to my Texx Lexx review for a related, idiotically indicting anecdote).
*Ever seen what happens when an oil filter gasket blows off? “Cleanup on Aisle God I hate the world!”
*A minor issue, but the FM radio went Tango Uniform a long time ago, hence my infuriating habit of singing while I drive.
*Ever had a tailpipe fall off? Not exactly sure what that sounds like? Then trust me, you haven’t.
*Did you know the seals on your trunk can deteriorate? Guess who didn’t! Here’s a hint: he’s a Scorpio, his favorite color is ultraviolet, and two days after a hellacious downpour he popped his trunk open, only to discover that it smelled like a cheese factory and a strain of scrape-resistant, semi-sentient mold had taken root all over his weightlifting belt.
*There’s engine “pinging.” There’s engine “knocking.” Then there’s engine “knocking like Wilt Chamberlain’s bedpost.”
*My hood ornament is long gone.
Right now I imagine you’re rushing to judgment (you…you judgmentalists [see above if you feel you have reason to doubt that word’s worditude]). Things like “auto-illiterate” and “nefariously negligent nincompoop” are probably dancing through your collective forebrain, and while a stern tongue-lashing would probably do me gobs of good, you’ll have to call off your dogs in this case, because while there’s only so much I’m capable of doing with a crescent wrench (such as twirling it like a Ginsu knife without losing a tooth, or shrieking like a Valkyrie and heaving it at a tuft of dry grass that I mistook for a spider), I was not the least averse to sinking shekels into having the ol’ hoss tuned up. The difference is that this time around, it would require the combined GDP of several up-and-coming African nations to make things right again, and since my attempts to plant a money tree resulted in a week’s worth of lost wages and a minor currency defacement charge, I figure it’s time to brush up on my haggling smile and step out.
Pray for the damned, people. Pray for the damned.
While we’re on the subject of all things spewn forth from the irritable bowels of hell, our latest jaunt through the Dark Zone is another Jeff Hirschfield solo ep…the second such anomaly in three episodes…folks, if that isn’t one of the seven signs that we are living in the end times, my name isn’t Bilbo (which it really isn’t…but why split hairs when we’re staring down the barrel of the apocalypse? Come, come people, there’s looting to be done!).
Hot and cold as season four may run, I always liked Prime Ridge…though it seems I completely missed the point my first time out. I liked it for its sheer over-the-top nonsensicality, the spectrum-spanning juxtaposition of our whacked out band of protagonists with the vastly different, though equally whacked out world that is Midwestern suburbia, and the climax, which plays out like a cross between South Park, Preacher, and the last twenty minutes of a John Woo flick. So you can imagine my surprise when I found out that it’s actually a harsh send-up of American Beauty, which Paul Donvan himself called “…a smug piece of shit” (about which I will have to take his word…I could only make it about ten minutes into that flick before deciding it was a smug piece of shit and turning it off). The supreme bean further admits that hardly anybody got the underlying joke, but like any good densely layered story, I can still sit back and enjoy all the shiny, flashy stuff! So let’s have at it!
We’ve hit yet another checkpoint. This ep marks both the end of my lazily dubbed “Job Security Trilogy,” and the beginning of what even the most fervent apologist (yo!) would admit is a run of filler eps. It’s a post-climax of sorts (…you know, minus the hasty apologies and awkward silence)…the bad guy is dead, the tense situation is resolved, and our heroes are bored out of their minds because they’ve run out of heroic things to do. Yet another fine place to end a season, and under normal circumstances, a fanfic-friendly time skip would follow. Instead, the gang slaps on their vinyl siding camo and goes house hunting. I must study their haggling techniques carefully…
We open with a throwback to happier times; a grainy, closed circuit tape of Kai punishing a couple of psych ward security stooges for having the gall to actually do their jobs. Pull back past our heroes’ wanted posters (gotta get me some of those) to reveal that the playback is being intensely scrutinized by a cop. And not just any cop…a cop on the edge. He’s strung out…a loose cannon who plays by his own rules and has trouble with authority. One more stunt like that and the mayor will have his ass!
Moving right along.
It’s Tuesday (somewhere), which means it’s Xev’s turn to juggle the idiot ball. A portentous chill settles over the bridge of the Lexx as she announces to one and all that she’s been thinking (the calamitous equivalent of a gateway drug). Thinking about searching for the key? Nah. Thinking that maybe—just maybe—they ought to do something about 790 before he makes yet another try on their lives? Oh pish-posh, why dwell on the past? No, she’s been thinking about how they’ve never really had a home in the thousands of years they’ve known each other (despite the fact that all but approximately one of those years passed while they were in cryo, and that prior to hotwiring the boss’ ride and bumming around the universe(s) like grad students with platinum cards, they each had a home…sort of…and were getting along fine…more or less).
Right on cue, 790 comes tear-assing around the corner. That’s right, not only did one of them give him his cart back, but all three of them are perfectly willing to allow him to find them a new place to live. *Sigh…* As an act of conscientious objection, I may have to root against the good guys this time out.
Xev describes her ideal home world with all the depth of a kiddie pool, whereupon 790 hacks into Lexx’s view screen (which you’d think they might want to use to look for the key) and cues up a braggadocious advert for picturesque Prime Ridge, OH, an idyllic suburban paradise perennially chosen by the United Nations as the best place to live in the whole wide world (gothcha…bountiful opium fields and all the peasants you can rape). Yes siree, it’s got everything you could ask for in pre-Sputnik down home amenities…friendly, diverse locals (nary a thimble of melanin between the lot of ‘em), an all-male college (lotta spooked sheep ‘round these hyah parts), a booming meat packing industry (just go ahead and scorch your olfactory receptors with a burning cigarette now…you’ll thank me later), and of course, the most perfectly manicured grass this side of Pebble Beach (spiders live in grass…grass = spiders…grass + C8H18 + fire = no spiders).
By now you know the routine…Xev wants to go, Stan wants to stay, Kai’s wasting protoblood, the sky is blue (except when it’s not). Stan hopelessly flirts with the notion that he might hold out…just…a little…longer, but once again fails to think about baseball and succumbs in record time. For the sake of those in the audience who are tuning in to the show for the very first time (boy did you people take a wrong turn!), Xev once again explains how the Lexx works before hustling her friends into a moth.
With fanfare befitting a new trash can in a public park, our heroes descend on Prime Ridge, far away from the heaving swarm of carnivorous cavity-craving carrots that can traverse the skies at the speed of sound and—last I checked—were still in the process of welcoming reinforcements. Just as they did on their last final trip to Earth, they park their moth in the middle of the street, cuz that’s how Lyt Zonas roll, beeotch! (I’m so very sorry for that)
After a few quick laps around the ‘burbs—stopping only to push over a few mailbox flags and nod politely at a svelte young milkman making his rounds on the bored housewife circuit—they come upon a house for sale, wherein we are introduced to another of my favorite “hi, then die” bit players, Dulcibella (which is apparently pronounced “Dutch-a-bella”…as though her folks couldn’t decide if they wanted to name her after a stripper or Arnold’s character in Predator, so they split the difference). A beleaguered, self-loathing realtor who looks like Xev after two decades on the Marianne Faithful diet, life has dealt this gal one ragdoll knockout blow after another. Simply put, she’s what Stan would be if he was perpetually soused, surrounded by people who piss him off to no end, and still reeling from a nasty relationship with a two-timing male chauvinist dirtbag. In other words, Stan if he drank a lot.
Perhaps if she relaxed in a nice scented bath or brutally castrated something (more on one of those things in a bit) she might calm down a bit. But that will have to wait, because three strangely dressed rubes just came a-knockin’. One heaping swig of eighty-proof charm later, she splits her leathery lips into the most hideous grin this side of Glasgow and lays on the boozy, bubbly buckeye charm.
And it works!
“Ah, but wait!” the show’s notoriously literal-minded audience declares en masse. “Houses cost money, and anything our heroes might be tempted to offer as collateral is crawling with intergalactic swamp rot. Plot hole! Plot hole, I say!” Well, it appears the joke’s on you, since you’ve apparently never strolled up to an ATM machine and idly punched in 7-9-0 (which they are never shown consulting 790 about…I refuse to read between the lines). And if you have, and weren’t rewarded for your efforts with an avalanche of cash, that probably means that you did it wrong, and should consider enrolling in a remedial button-pushing course at your local community college (save me a good seat).
New Mayberry or not, it probably isn’t a good idea to walk down the street in any town with a trash bag full of money (unless your social circle consists of a walking weapon, a curvaceous carnivore, and a…guy with a nice hat). Further evidence that the Prime Ridgians (?) are a wholesome, incorruptible lot; or did inflation simply lower the boom on the rust belt first?
Speaking of all things rusty and worn down, you’ll notice Dulcibella neglects to mention that buyers aren’t usually expected to pay for a house in full the day they move in. Guess her swindle-sense takes a level up when she’s had a few (equivalent to Bunny’s intermittent “stupid like a stupid fox” routine), because she barely bats a bloodshot eye when they pony up, cradling the cushion of cash and welcoming the new neighbors with a smile, a hug, and a “welcome home” basket jam packed with enough Grade-Q meat byproducts to short out Takeru Kobayashi's central nervous system.
And if there’s one thing Xev’s government funded education imparted on her, it’s how to handle a huge hunk of meat! No sooner has Kai retired to a large chest freezer for a quiet evening of cultivating mold and spooning with a gallon of Death by Chocolate than Xev sashays into the dining room humming a cheerful B3K-ican ditty in a voice too eerily reminiscent of my German grandmother and carrying a heaping plate of what appears to be either deep fried belts or lightly sautéed airplane wreckage. As someone who very nearly set fire to an entire dormitory microwaving a bag of popcorn, I shan’t throw stones at the lil’ lizard’s cooking skills…I’m too busy admiring the otherworldly craftsmanship of that dining room table, which you’d think a sizzling, five-hundred degree platter would burn right through. It doesn’t, because the table is magic (prove me wrong), and so our heroes officially christen their new crash pad by bellying up to a palate-punishing feast of Hiroshima hot dogs (I coined that term…if you wish to borrow it you are welcome to contact my people’s people about negotiating royalties). Between tortured grimaces and the sound of fresh ulcers forming, Xev declares their latest venture “the best decision [they’ve] ever made,” and it’s hard to argue with her. After all, if you actually took time to itemize all of their scatty schemes, staring with the most profoundly wrongheaded (a debate that will outlast the lot of us), eventually you’d work your way to the…least worst.
Now that they’re good and settled in, it’s time to relax. An evening of vegging, kicking their feet up and watching what appears to be the Meat Channel (don’t google that…just don’t) can do a body all sorts of good. And best of all, nobody frets about the mess, because Xev flat-out excels at women’s work (*readies himself to be maced and beaten with purses*). But then one day’s sluggishness bleeds over to the next…and the next. A few listless days later—during which no one even thinks of showering—Xev’s smile fades and she bemoans their situation, claiming they’re doing even less than they did on the Lexx…which is far from true…they’re eating more, absorbing flashy, soundbite-distilled information, and when was the last time she bothered to tidy up the Lexx!?! Kai agrees with me! Or he would, if he weren’t about to power down. We could quibble on end about why they didn’t bring any protoblood to Earth with them, or why Stan couldn’t un-ass himself from the couch during a commercial break and hop back up to the Lexx, but none of that matters right now because we’ve got some celebrating to do. Kai, of his own volition, stood up and informed Stan that the ice box was as useless as male nipples and that his protoblood was almost kaput. Break out the bubbly, that’s equivalent to a baby taking its first step…onto an ice rink…into hurricane-force winds…while juggling four live hamsters and reciting pi to six thousand places.
Xev is understandably concerned…but doing something about it would mean getting up…helluva dilemma. So, while she’s fixated on an overproduced infomercial featuring Tad, a strapping young local making the most of his liberal arts degree at the local slaughterhouse, Stan goes in search of some tools and runs into Dulcibella, who presents the single most damning argument in favor of a worldwide governing body that dictates who can and cannot wear stretch pants. You wouldn’t initially figure an abrasive, hard-bitten shrew with two dozen or so twenty-ninth birthdays under her girdle to be Stan’s type, but every once in a while he’s capable of more depth than we give him credit for (ask Prince). Within moments they’ve made plans for a lusty liaison that, for the sake of avoiding the mess that would accompany the act of blinding myself with a wooden backscratcher, I pray is merely implied, after which Stan curls up on the lawn for a little St. Augustine siesta because it’s nice and warm out, and he’s never heard of ticks, chiggers, silverfish, weevils, worms, spiders, fire ants, centipedes, bigger fire ants, rats, mice, rabbits, teenage hoodlums, meteorites, blue ice, UV rays, and hail. My God, the outdoors is a horrible, horrible place.
Spurred into action by Tad’s impassioned pitch and Kai’s incessant bitching about…something, Xev decides its time she got out of the house and found herself a job. Lizard skin attaché case in hand, she marches straight down to the CJD Meat Packing Plant, famous for its ample parking and stylized cow blimp that spins against the wind (just a day like any other day in R’lyeh County). From there we meet the plant’s stress councilor, who proves remarkably ill-qualified for her job when few simple taunts from a sociopathic robot head get the better of her ticker. Enter Xev (…never mind), who swoops in and fills the seconds-old void with naught but her wits and a picture of herself in a nurse’s digs (and yet if I even joke about showing up at a job interview dressed like a candy striper, I’m told I should see a shrink…I tell ya, we’ll never be all we can be until these ridiculous double standards are a thing of the past).
In no time flat she’s set up with a cushy office and an even cushier water cooler. Unfortunately, as it is with so many so-called “dream jobs,” eventually she has to at least attempt to get some work done. So let’s say hello to Xev’s first patient of the day, Cleesby: a nervous, nattering nose hair of a kid with an upper lip that damn near resembles a bill who could probably pass as Justin Long’s stunt double in the right light. Beset with a crippling infirmity formally known as Lachaparostons, he nervously bemoans his lot in life, pulling shifts in the evisceration department for the past few summers at the behest of his old man; a grass groping, firearms fondling Olympic-class athlete (he must be, if he’s able to chase his milksop son around with a mower…even the little push models are heavy, and you’d be surprised how nimble a terrified child can be). Now, Dr. Bilbo would gently recommend he harness that frustration and channel it toward something productive…like getting the hell out of my office so I can resume filing my nails and attempting to beat my previous day’s Minesweeper time. But my esteemed college with the gams that don’t quit favors a slightly more holistic approach, so she writes him a prescription for an evening of wild monkey love, to be filled ASAP. You know, come to think of it, I’m sure my old man used to chase me around with heavy machinery too! And, if he didn’t, I can certainly call him up and have him do it! (Would it surprise you to hear that it wouldn’t take much persuading?) Then can I at least get a consultation!?!?!?
*sigh*…I gotta shape up. If the board saw me fly off the handle like that, they’d have my license for breakfast!
Back at Casa de Maison, we meet up with two fine, upstanding young people. Gordo and Skankita, both clearly named for saints, are some of the most articulate, well-groomed crack heads I’ve ever met. My libertarian buddies would nod approvingly at their forthrightness…both freely admit that they choose to pound the pipe, and that it should be their God-given right to get as bombed as they want. My redneck buddies, however, would probably fill them full of slugs for breaking and entering. Yes, while Stan is doing his masterfully accurate impression of a compost heap, the two star-crossed huffers pay our heroes’ pad a call as part of their felonious fundraising campaign. Once inside they toss the joint, pawing through cushions and drawers to no avail until Gordo—he of the Vest of Many Pockets—suddenly remembers that rich people always hide their spare loot in the bigass freezer in the corner of their living room.
Sorry G-unit, nobody here but us chickens. And us steaks. And Kai. You’ll note the dead man’s back to acting all altruistic-like now that his motor control is spiraling down the tubes and anyone who can move at a slow jog or faster could outflank him. I’m not really sure why he’s crapping out, seeing as he just refilled his protoblood in the previous ep, but it’s worth remembering that that show left him with a lot of terrifying new feelings to explore, so I imagine grabbing a nap in the interim was out of the question.
Hey now, what would this run of episodes be without a trip to the can! That’s precisely where Tad—star of such critically-acclaimed infomercials as The CJD Infomercial II, The CJD Infomercial III: The Final Chapter, Return of the CJD Infomercial, Glenn Danzig’s The CJD Infomercial (not a sequel, but a reimagining of the original), and Rise & Dry: Winning the Fight Against Post-Adolescent Bedwetting—is holding court with his Bidet Breakfast Club, pointing and laughing at a security tape of Xev’s conference with Cleesby shortly before the object of their derision mopes into their porcelain palace. Disgusted by his mere presence, Tad snaps his fingers, ordering the Tinkletime Troops to seize the infidel while he assails him with all the rote-memorized putdowns he learned at the After School Special School of Out-of-Touch Smack Talking…you…you broomheads!
Wakey wakey Stan! Rejuvenated and sporting a refreshing layer of dew, Captain Comatose finally rejoins the waking world (the vultures rejected him, the dogs took one look and opted to do their business elsewhere). En route to swiping a mid-afternoon paper, he spies what he initially assumes is Dulcibella toweling off in an adjacent window. Now, most reasonably pigheaded menfolk would take this time to say a few parting words to their sex drive, but the Stunner’s a progressive-minded pervert (i.e. desperate to the point of chatting up a mannequin), so he investigates further…and torch my tootsies, if Dame Fate doesn’t go and do the Red Rake a solid. The silhouette that caught his wandering eye isn’t Dulcibella at all, but a stripperific new model! This can only be a good omen!
So the Loo League like to poke fun at Cleesby’s shortcomings. Fair enough on the surface…a little good natured ribbing never hurt anybody , and can actually go a long way toward fostering long-lasting camaraderie. But then they rag on him for having allergies…that hits too close to home…they must die now.
Anybody remember our cop on the edge? Me neither. But we should, because his snitch dropped the dime, and his mole at Justice called in his last favor, and even though he’s two days from retirement and his stuffed-shirt lieutenant pulled him off the case, he’s going rogue, because justice doesn’t hide behind a desk. Crime is a disease, and he’s the piping hot chicken soup of the law!
Tad, meanwhile, is chatting up Xev, trying and failing to steal Cleesby’s thunder. Elsewhere, Cleesby himself is but a distant memory to the Poopchute Patrol, their attention having been entirely wrested away by a mislabeled tape of their brash boss sexing up the dearly departed paraplegic shrink (once again, I’m all for a little nudity, but what the hell, Jeff!). The ensuing ridicule comes, quite expectedly, as a blow to Tad’s brittle self esteem, the blame for which he instantly foists on the guy who had nothing whatsoever to do with his fall from grace whilst basically hand waving the people who are actually responsible for destroying his life…which pretty much mirror’s Two-Face’s rationale in The Dark Knight, so I’m going to allow it.
Splish splash, Stan’s taking a bath. For once I’m thankful for the prop guy’s gratuitous overuse of bubbles. Out of nowhere he is joined by Piccolina, the shapely Dulcibella upgrade, who barely wastes a breath before defrocking and joining him in the tub. My word, this kind of thing only happens on Showtime…and they used to be on Showtime, so it’s all good! Laura Patch, wherever you are, I am in your debt. Your heartfelt sacrifice made me instantly forget all about Tad’s…hindquarters. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t make up for that horrible, horrible thing Priest did!
Okay…what happens next is basically a reversal of a classic Flintstones gambit (instead of two characters needing to be in multiple places at once, here we have a whole slew of characters independently converging on the same location at the same time) crossed with a decade’s worth of shocking soap opera reveals. Oh, and guns…a motherload of guns. Scientists would call that last part a “variable.” We men of the quill call it “substance.”
I’m doing this without the aid of a flowchart, so bear with me…
First Dulcibella shows up, toting a fresh snootful of Kentucky cough syrup and a pair of like-new hedge clippers that I pray, for Stan’s sake, are supposed to be a gift, and not some sort of improvised marital aide (no reason why they can’t be both, I s’pose). She stumbles in on the soapy scandal, and goes from threatening their lives to pouring her heart (and a portion of her liver) out in the time it takes to field strip an AK. Before you know it, Captain Caligula is soaking in style with two generations of psychotic suburbanites. Say it like you mean it, my deposed liege…it’s good to be the king!
Seems like all’s well that ends quasi-incestuously. Then the pouty-lipped harbinger of doom gets home, and hell follows with her.
First Cleesby shows up for their rendezvous, on time and dressed in layers, just like his mother taught him. Unfortunately, one of those layers happens to be a flak jacket loaded down with enough guns to empty out Cincinnati (just like all those awful video games that desperately need to be outlawed taught him). See he’s not just physically attracted to Xev…he’s head over heels in love with her. And based on what he remembers from the Cliff Notes to Romeo and Juliet, the surest way to prove one’s devotion to his beloved is with a good old-fashioned murder/suicide (friendly hint to all you unhinged lunatics out there…try doing the second part first).
Meanwhile, an innocuous looking Fresh Beef Industries van with a menacing looking driver pulls up to the curb. While it’s a little late in the game to be introducing new sub-plots, I find the idea of a rival meat packing plant attempting to put the squeeze on a couple CJD employees to be most intriguing.
Did you know Tad was in the house too!? Like Batman appearing out of nowhere in the commissioner’s office, he’s been chillin’ in a dark corner like he owns the place for who knows how long, similarly strapped and fixing to ventilate Cleesby for…something.
While those crazy kids are having one of their little spats, Fresh Beef Industries (hereafter to be referred to as FB) dispatches some of its union goons to negotiate a corporate buyout with a menial laborer and a staff shrink, whom the bigwigs obviously granted power of attorney in a deleted scene. Unfortunately, they trample Dulcibella’s prize-winning marigolds in the process, thereby voiding their birth certificates.
Oh yeah, did I mention that Dulcibella and Piccolina have guns too? That’s all right, it’s not really an important plot point.
Lest we forget Kai is in this episode, the dead man Ozzys his way through the door following a delightful little afternoon outing with Gordo and Skankita. They fed some ducks, picked wildflowers, and made friendship bracelets out of some really good hemp. Since none of them really felt like cooking, they went ahead and picked up some guns on the way home, and at his new bestest buddy’s insistence, the G-man has decided to mend fences with his mother Dulcibella over a fresh 12 gauge.
Tad’s Crapper Commandos are there too. I’m not sure why. Perhaps Jeff threw them in at the last minute so people like me wouldn’t corner him at conventions and demand to know what became of them.
Now, I’m probably in the minority here, but I think it would have been a scream had the beans head faked us and not staged a massive gunfight.
But they did.
And I’m glad they did, because I learned a couple things. I learned that stabbing a sotted old bat in the ass with a pair of garden shears is like staking Dracula. I learned that with a good night’s sleep and a little bit of crack in your system, you can shrug off close-range hollow points to the shoulder, chest, and thigh (you wouldn’t believe all the bucks I’ve frittered away on Kevlar over the years…live and learn, Bilbo). I learned that the shortest distance to a man’s heart is between the fifth and sixth ribs from a slightly elevated angle. I learned that nobody important ever gets hurt, guns never jam nor do they ever need to be reloaded, and beef is what’s for dinner.
But one thing I didn’t need to learn, because I’ve known it all my life…NEVER FUCK WITH A GUY WHO’S GOT ALLERGIES!
This was a tough episode for me to review. It’s so deliciously ridiculous that it’s damn near impossible to joke about at times. I have no idea what subspecies of dragon ol’ Jeffey was chasing when he laid it down on paper…or for that matter what the director/choreographer told the extras during the first cast meeting, but whatever went down off camera certainly did the trick, because I thoroughly enjoyed this madcap romp through Normalsville.
It’ll take a good while for my brain to boot back up after watching that. In the meantime, I’ve got some yard work to do. Now, where did I leave my flamethrower…?
|I googled "Paul Donovan" and "smug piece of shit" and got to a July 9, 2007 article by Nader Elhefnawy - "Lexx at Ten" - on the Strange Horizons website. I had no idea the movie was being sent up by Donovan, or that it was smug; but I like Kevin Spacey in just about anything he does.
[Lexx even sent up the way Americans send up their culture. "Prime Ridge," the episode in which the crew of the Lexx try to make a home for themselves in Prime Ridge, Ohio, "the best little town in the whole wide world," Donovan explained, was more "a satire of American Beauty" than a comment on the American way of life: "I thought that American Beauty was a smug piece of shit. I felt it reflected a particularly facile view of the U.S. (and especially its suburban 'culture'). . . . I grew up in a suburb in Canada, and boy did it deserve to get destroyed from space, but I still did not like the Holier-than-Thou approach of American Beauty." But as he notes, "hardly anybody got it."]
Synopsis of American Beauty:
|OMG, Bilbo! Your AMC Gremlin finally died out on you? Tsk Tsk for not taking better care of it! Good thing you still have your 1985 Yugo as backup!
*slicks her hair back into a bun and gets our her purse - womping him Ala Ruth Buzzy style for that woman's work comment*
Prime Ridge, a look into middle america, if middle america was located on planet Zorax. Where Clara Peller stills lives on asking "Where's the beef?"
A very funny view of the crew trying to be normal, or as normal as a dead assasin, a clusterlizard-loveslave, and a libido charged ex-security guard class 4 can be.
|oy vey is that what life is like in the suburbs? yech! lol imagine Kai, Xev and Stan in NYC..fugettabouit..aint' no discounts here bub..great review Bilbo..again..but I bet ya tired of hearing what a genius you are..*sigh*
|A spin through the Big Apple (or any other big city, for that matter) could have been the source of much amusement...hell, you could wring an entire 44 minute show out of any one of the crew trying flag a cab or order a little nosh at the Carnegie Deli.
Alas, it probably would have blown their budget (...or their psychedelic wardrobe and funny accents would have aroused too much suspicion)
|This is one of my faves of S4. I watched it again a few days ago and LOVED it! Hilarious yet disturbing. Xev was particularly amusing in this one.
A spin through the Big Apple (or any other big city, for that matter) could have been the source of much amusement...hell, you could wring an entire 44 minute show out of any one of the crew trying flag a cab or order a little nosh at the Carnegie Deli.
funny accents? wha funny accents? LOL can you just see Kai flying off Trump Plaza? buwahahahaha and landing on Trump himself?